Again, I didn't sleep much last night. Oddly enough, I don't remember dreaming about my mother. In fact, I don't remember dreaming about anything. If only sleep would come! I remember looking at the florescent glow of the clock. The numbers gleamed at 1:30, 3:00 4:30 and again at 5:15. Finally, I arose from my bed to sit in the quiet of the morning and think. The room outside the bedroom felt cold and damp. Even my dog, 'Doodles' didn't follow me. He stayed snuggled in his own cocoon, lying next to my husband, Gary.
Using the remote control, I turned on our gas fireplace. Sitting down on the hearth in front of it the flames ignited, warming my body and spirit. There is something tranquil about firelight, especially in the darkness of the early morning. I find the flickering flames comforting; almost sedating in fact. They allow me to review yesterday without thinking of tomorrow. Sitting in seclusion I feel at peace. Conceivably, this is the way it is supposed to be. The way it needs to be after losing a loved one.
Dawn soon appears above the horizon but still there is no sunrise. Another day of dreariness. How I wish for the sun to shine again! The sight of it enlightens my mood; making the day brighter in every way. Perhaps tomorrow........
Tonight is my first venture out with friends since my mother's passing. I feel ready to socialize again. Not in a large group: that would be too much for me. However, sitting down in a quiet restaurant with two good friends is something I look forward to. It's time to celebrate the season; if only in a small way. My husband deserves it. So do I. The restaurant we're going to is small and quaint, converted from an old Victorian home. I already know the food will be delicious, the company delightful, and the ambiance rich and mellow.
Baby steps, right?
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Twilight Zone
I slept in late today. I didn't get up until 5:30 this morning! I don't know why I can't sleep but it is frustrating to say the least. Not surprisingly, I dreamed of my mother again last night. I wish I could remember what takes place during my dreams of her, but by the time I get up I've already forgotten what they entail. Perhaps I'll put a pen and piece of paper on my nightstand so that I can write them down as they occur. Generally, I wake up several times during the night (always after a dream) so I'll have many opportunities to take notes!
The sun never really rose this morning. I kept waiting for it to appear over the hillside but this morning was only full of bleakness: all gloomy and gray. Winter has not officially begun. Yet it has made an early presence here in St. Louis. Sadly, all the glory of yesterday's sublime sunrise was non-existent today. Perhaps that is why we must appreciate beauty in life whenever possible. It's God's little way of making us seek out the wonder of our world.
We had an ice storm last evening. Piercing winds and Arctic air moved in together with frozen sheets of rain: leaving roads and sidewalks nearly impassible. This afternoon, after all of the salt trucks had done their duty, I ventured out to do a little shopping for next week's Christmas dinner. I hate crowds and would prefer to gather what I need when the stores are not hectic; nearly impossible at this time of year. I moved from isle to isle within the grocery store, staring blankly at the shelves, not really knowing what to purchase. I should have made a list, I know. But my mind has trouble focusing on many of the every day responsibilities I so recently took for granted. Is this all part of mourning for my mother?
After about an hour I was able to check-out, not really knowing what I actually purchased. I did buy enough eggs to make my home-made noodles though, so I know I've done something right. My son, Justin, will be happy! My cupboards seemed to be full after putting the groceries away upon returning home. I guess whatever is in them will have to suffice as the ingredients for our Christmas dinner. It may consist of dishes from our oven that are different than ever before, but our holiday is different this year too. My mother is not here. She has only been gone a little over three weeks. It seems like a lifetime ago yet simultaneously a mere moment ago. My timing is off. The normal register is not yet in place. Sometimes I feel as if my mind is meandering along a road with no end in sight. I can't seem to focus on life in general. Will this end at some point in time? Is there truly any closure to losing a loved one? If so, I don't feel it. I'm not there, yet.
I spoke to my father again this afternoon. He was nearly out of breath after just returning from one of his weekly swim sessions. Telling me about it, he made me smile. He's doing the best he can, I know. Although he stumbles I am sure, he still makes the effort to put one foot in front of the other in order to keep moving. He never complains: instead he chooses to try to cheer me up. Still, I can hear his voice crackle at times, especially when he speaks of Mother. For him, it's almost as if she's simply out on an errand; ready to walk in their front door at any given time. She is very much in his present. "Mom's vegetable soup is always so good," he said today. "I'm going to try to make it in the crock pot."
"I've got my ticket to come out again next month, Dad," I exclaimed. "Oh good, I'll be so glad to have you here," he added, his voice overflowing with love and anticipation. Seeing my father again is something I'm greatly looking forward to. But, the tasks that await my return weigh heavy on my mind. I've got a lot of things to do that I know will be hard on me. Sorting through my mother's clothing, cleaning out her closets, and organizing her kitchen so that it will be more conducive to my father's needs (alone now) are just a few of the many things to be completed upon my return.
Maybe that is why I feel so unsettled today. The past (when my mother was alive and well) is now gone. The present, in which I exist and live my life doesn't feel normal to me yet. And, the future (without my mother) is too painful to contemplate.
Today, I feel as though I'm living in Twilight Zone.
The sun never really rose this morning. I kept waiting for it to appear over the hillside but this morning was only full of bleakness: all gloomy and gray. Winter has not officially begun. Yet it has made an early presence here in St. Louis. Sadly, all the glory of yesterday's sublime sunrise was non-existent today. Perhaps that is why we must appreciate beauty in life whenever possible. It's God's little way of making us seek out the wonder of our world.
We had an ice storm last evening. Piercing winds and Arctic air moved in together with frozen sheets of rain: leaving roads and sidewalks nearly impassible. This afternoon, after all of the salt trucks had done their duty, I ventured out to do a little shopping for next week's Christmas dinner. I hate crowds and would prefer to gather what I need when the stores are not hectic; nearly impossible at this time of year. I moved from isle to isle within the grocery store, staring blankly at the shelves, not really knowing what to purchase. I should have made a list, I know. But my mind has trouble focusing on many of the every day responsibilities I so recently took for granted. Is this all part of mourning for my mother?
After about an hour I was able to check-out, not really knowing what I actually purchased. I did buy enough eggs to make my home-made noodles though, so I know I've done something right. My son, Justin, will be happy! My cupboards seemed to be full after putting the groceries away upon returning home. I guess whatever is in them will have to suffice as the ingredients for our Christmas dinner. It may consist of dishes from our oven that are different than ever before, but our holiday is different this year too. My mother is not here. She has only been gone a little over three weeks. It seems like a lifetime ago yet simultaneously a mere moment ago. My timing is off. The normal register is not yet in place. Sometimes I feel as if my mind is meandering along a road with no end in sight. I can't seem to focus on life in general. Will this end at some point in time? Is there truly any closure to losing a loved one? If so, I don't feel it. I'm not there, yet.
I spoke to my father again this afternoon. He was nearly out of breath after just returning from one of his weekly swim sessions. Telling me about it, he made me smile. He's doing the best he can, I know. Although he stumbles I am sure, he still makes the effort to put one foot in front of the other in order to keep moving. He never complains: instead he chooses to try to cheer me up. Still, I can hear his voice crackle at times, especially when he speaks of Mother. For him, it's almost as if she's simply out on an errand; ready to walk in their front door at any given time. She is very much in his present. "Mom's vegetable soup is always so good," he said today. "I'm going to try to make it in the crock pot."
"I've got my ticket to come out again next month, Dad," I exclaimed. "Oh good, I'll be so glad to have you here," he added, his voice overflowing with love and anticipation. Seeing my father again is something I'm greatly looking forward to. But, the tasks that await my return weigh heavy on my mind. I've got a lot of things to do that I know will be hard on me. Sorting through my mother's clothing, cleaning out her closets, and organizing her kitchen so that it will be more conducive to my father's needs (alone now) are just a few of the many things to be completed upon my return.
Maybe that is why I feel so unsettled today. The past (when my mother was alive and well) is now gone. The present, in which I exist and live my life doesn't feel normal to me yet. And, the future (without my mother) is too painful to contemplate.
Today, I feel as though I'm living in Twilight Zone.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Dreams and Nightmares
I'm crying less and less each day now. Good memories with my mother from the past fill my head more often than the bad that took place during her final days. Like always, I still have my moments when my eyes begin to well up and sting from trying to hold back the tears. It's probably better to let them flow; a natural part of the grief process, I suppose.
This is my first time. The first time I have ever lost a a loved one so close to me. The first time I have to go on afterward. I take my steps. I put one foot in front of the other, but I don't profess to know what I am doing. There is no manual to teach me how to get through this stage in life. Sure, there are hundreds of books on death and dying. On, 'Learning to Live with Grief.' Grieving is so personal and different for each of us. Would reading a book help me? Can anyone recommend a good one? The one that would be best for me?
I do believe I'm doing better and improving each and every day. still, I dream about my mother nearly every night. Is this normal? I don't have one dream during the darkness of slumber. I have many. Typically, I don't remember any of them upon awakening. For the most part my dreams leave me feeling well. Not rested necessarily, but comforted. There is one exception to this. A dream that never leaves me.
Shortly after my mother's death, perhaps just a day or two upon my return home from Arizona, I awoke in a heated sweat from a dream. Not a dream, really. It was more of a nightmare. A nightmare that I don't understand and one that I can't seem to forget. Like a movie trailer from a horror film, it haunts me still.
In my 'nightmare' I was completely aware that Mother had passed away. The setting took place in Arizona. In my parent's house. I was still there with my father. Suddenly Mom was alive again: looking precisely like she did before her demise. Mother had just taken a breathing treatment in her bedroom. It was a painful struggle for her: horrible to see. Even after it was over, no matter how hard she tried, she still could not breathe. My father climbed onto their bed behind her like he always did, rubbing her back futilely; trying to help her win the battle.
"Help me, Kim," she said, barely audible. I stood there, rigid. There was nothing I could do to help her. Nothing. My father continued rubbing her back, tears streaming down his face. Her desperate voice repeating itself over and over. "Help me, Kim."
Analyzing the above (which I continue to do), I know that much of this nightmare is a repetition of my mother's last evening upon this earth. What obsesses me is the meaning of such. Did I do enough to help my mother during her last remaining hours of life? Obviously not. I was helpless in my efforts to do more for her. Is this nightmare trying to tell me that my mother is not at rest in heaven above? This interpretation haunts me. Or, does it simply mean that nothing would be any different had she lived? Surely if my mother were still alive today, she would remain in pain and be suffering, horribly. Regardless, the dreams of my mother continue. The nightmare has passed, but my not understanding it is still present.
I woke up at 4:00 this morning after another night of dreaming about my mother. I got out of bed, to let my precious pup outside to relive himself. Before long, I rested on the sofa in the darkness. I must have fallen asleep because I woke to the morning sun rising through our Eastern windows. Lifting the red velour throw from my lap, I got up to open the back door. Two deer (a buck and a doe) ran across our back yard and into the woods behind our house. An enormous turkey waddled in the field next door. Gazing above, I viewed puffy clouds of coral drifting across the serene baby-blue sky.
The early morning sunrise was one of the most stunning I have ever seen. A sense of peacefulness and serenity passed over me. Perhaps it was my dear mother telling me not to worry......
Is she at rest after all? It is my greatest hope.
This is my first time. The first time I have ever lost a a loved one so close to me. The first time I have to go on afterward. I take my steps. I put one foot in front of the other, but I don't profess to know what I am doing. There is no manual to teach me how to get through this stage in life. Sure, there are hundreds of books on death and dying. On, 'Learning to Live with Grief.' Grieving is so personal and different for each of us. Would reading a book help me? Can anyone recommend a good one? The one that would be best for me?
I do believe I'm doing better and improving each and every day. still, I dream about my mother nearly every night. Is this normal? I don't have one dream during the darkness of slumber. I have many. Typically, I don't remember any of them upon awakening. For the most part my dreams leave me feeling well. Not rested necessarily, but comforted. There is one exception to this. A dream that never leaves me.
Shortly after my mother's death, perhaps just a day or two upon my return home from Arizona, I awoke in a heated sweat from a dream. Not a dream, really. It was more of a nightmare. A nightmare that I don't understand and one that I can't seem to forget. Like a movie trailer from a horror film, it haunts me still.
In my 'nightmare' I was completely aware that Mother had passed away. The setting took place in Arizona. In my parent's house. I was still there with my father. Suddenly Mom was alive again: looking precisely like she did before her demise. Mother had just taken a breathing treatment in her bedroom. It was a painful struggle for her: horrible to see. Even after it was over, no matter how hard she tried, she still could not breathe. My father climbed onto their bed behind her like he always did, rubbing her back futilely; trying to help her win the battle.
"Help me, Kim," she said, barely audible. I stood there, rigid. There was nothing I could do to help her. Nothing. My father continued rubbing her back, tears streaming down his face. Her desperate voice repeating itself over and over. "Help me, Kim."
Analyzing the above (which I continue to do), I know that much of this nightmare is a repetition of my mother's last evening upon this earth. What obsesses me is the meaning of such. Did I do enough to help my mother during her last remaining hours of life? Obviously not. I was helpless in my efforts to do more for her. Is this nightmare trying to tell me that my mother is not at rest in heaven above? This interpretation haunts me. Or, does it simply mean that nothing would be any different had she lived? Surely if my mother were still alive today, she would remain in pain and be suffering, horribly. Regardless, the dreams of my mother continue. The nightmare has passed, but my not understanding it is still present.
I woke up at 4:00 this morning after another night of dreaming about my mother. I got out of bed, to let my precious pup outside to relive himself. Before long, I rested on the sofa in the darkness. I must have fallen asleep because I woke to the morning sun rising through our Eastern windows. Lifting the red velour throw from my lap, I got up to open the back door. Two deer (a buck and a doe) ran across our back yard and into the woods behind our house. An enormous turkey waddled in the field next door. Gazing above, I viewed puffy clouds of coral drifting across the serene baby-blue sky.
The early morning sunrise was one of the most stunning I have ever seen. A sense of peacefulness and serenity passed over me. Perhaps it was my dear mother telling me not to worry......
Is she at rest after all? It is my greatest hope.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Christmas Shopping
When I spoke to my dad late this morning he asked me about Christmas presents. "I've never done this before," he began. "Your mother always did the shopping. I don't know where to begin."
I told my father not to worry. I would shop for the presents on his list using my computer to purchase them on-line. This was a concept my dad never would have thought of, much less have known how to do. I explained to him how easy it would be for me. "I'm on my computer most of the day anyway, Dad," I insisted. "Most orders will even ship for free," I added, "and still arrive in time for Christmas." I sounded like one of the latest seasonal ads on television. But, my dad was ecstatic! "Oh, thank you, Honey, " he said with a huge sigh of relief.
Like most men his age, the thought of shopping at any time is a daunting task. This year, trying to buy Christmas presents so soon after my mother's passing is understandably, overwhelming for him. He doesn't even know where to begin. What should he purchase? How much do things cost? Where is the best place to shop? My father was scared to death!
It was a thrill for me to ease Dad's mind in regard to his shopping dilemma. How happy it makes me to be able to do this for him. Such a small offering on my part, yet an enormous relief to his wounded holiday spirit. It's something he no longer has to worry about.
After hanging up the phone with him, I actually looked forward to shopping for my dad. After all, I could do it from the sanctuary of my own home: in my warm and cozy library. Outside my frosted bay windows, the first snowfall of the season blanketed the ground in several inches of white powder. The temperature was 4 degrees with a wind-chill of minus 8. How happy I was to be inside: drinking a steaming cup of cocoa while sitting in my favorite flannel bathrobe!
Most of my family and friends would say that I'm an 'expert' shopper when it comes to using the Internet. I have to agree. My experience is unmeasurable: not something I'm necessarily proud of. Still, my 'know-how' does have its advantages. My computer mouse moved with ease from one site to another, comparing prices and seeking the best deals. Although I anticipated this virtual shopping trip to be an easy task, it took much longer than I expected. Not because my father's list of gifts to be purchased was large, but because my computer kept crashing. With only twelve days before Christmas, it seems I was not the only one shopping from their computer!
Actually, Dad's gift list was very small. I had explained to him earlier, that most of our family "cut back years ago" through an agreement with Mom. We are all grown now. Most of our own children (my father's grandchildren) are grown as well. None of us truly want or need anything. Still, there were a few people Dad insisted on buying presents for, so I gladly went along with him as he wished.
While I checked off each present from my father's Christmas list, I couldn't help but think of how different the experience was this year. Everywhere I looked my eyes seemed to gravitate toward items I would have liked to purchase for my mother. Things I new she would have loved. An Italian inlaid wooden music box playing one of her favorite themes from, Doctor Zhivago. A beautifully shaped vase made of cut glass in some of her favorite colors: various shades of pinks and blues. A white, warm and fuzzy bed jacket to keep her comfy while watching television from her favorite chair at home. I could go on and on.
As much as I enjoy Christmas shopping (even if only from home), much of the magic is missing this year. Missing......like my mother.
I told my father not to worry. I would shop for the presents on his list using my computer to purchase them on-line. This was a concept my dad never would have thought of, much less have known how to do. I explained to him how easy it would be for me. "I'm on my computer most of the day anyway, Dad," I insisted. "Most orders will even ship for free," I added, "and still arrive in time for Christmas." I sounded like one of the latest seasonal ads on television. But, my dad was ecstatic! "Oh, thank you, Honey, " he said with a huge sigh of relief.
Like most men his age, the thought of shopping at any time is a daunting task. This year, trying to buy Christmas presents so soon after my mother's passing is understandably, overwhelming for him. He doesn't even know where to begin. What should he purchase? How much do things cost? Where is the best place to shop? My father was scared to death!
It was a thrill for me to ease Dad's mind in regard to his shopping dilemma. How happy it makes me to be able to do this for him. Such a small offering on my part, yet an enormous relief to his wounded holiday spirit. It's something he no longer has to worry about.
After hanging up the phone with him, I actually looked forward to shopping for my dad. After all, I could do it from the sanctuary of my own home: in my warm and cozy library. Outside my frosted bay windows, the first snowfall of the season blanketed the ground in several inches of white powder. The temperature was 4 degrees with a wind-chill of minus 8. How happy I was to be inside: drinking a steaming cup of cocoa while sitting in my favorite flannel bathrobe!
Most of my family and friends would say that I'm an 'expert' shopper when it comes to using the Internet. I have to agree. My experience is unmeasurable: not something I'm necessarily proud of. Still, my 'know-how' does have its advantages. My computer mouse moved with ease from one site to another, comparing prices and seeking the best deals. Although I anticipated this virtual shopping trip to be an easy task, it took much longer than I expected. Not because my father's list of gifts to be purchased was large, but because my computer kept crashing. With only twelve days before Christmas, it seems I was not the only one shopping from their computer!
Actually, Dad's gift list was very small. I had explained to him earlier, that most of our family "cut back years ago" through an agreement with Mom. We are all grown now. Most of our own children (my father's grandchildren) are grown as well. None of us truly want or need anything. Still, there were a few people Dad insisted on buying presents for, so I gladly went along with him as he wished.
While I checked off each present from my father's Christmas list, I couldn't help but think of how different the experience was this year. Everywhere I looked my eyes seemed to gravitate toward items I would have liked to purchase for my mother. Things I new she would have loved. An Italian inlaid wooden music box playing one of her favorite themes from, Doctor Zhivago. A beautifully shaped vase made of cut glass in some of her favorite colors: various shades of pinks and blues. A white, warm and fuzzy bed jacket to keep her comfy while watching television from her favorite chair at home. I could go on and on.
As much as I enjoy Christmas shopping (even if only from home), much of the magic is missing this year. Missing......like my mother.
Traditions
Well, I did it. I forced myself to go down into our basement in order to bring up some of our family Christmas decorations. I couldn't bring myself to put up very many of them. I'm not ready yet. Our life-size wooden nutcrackers sit lonely in our basement, still. The Christmas tree rests beside them: waiting to be decorated. Not this year.
Thankfully, I managed to make our home look somewhat festive, if only for a couple of weeks. Cream colored candles adorned with golden-sprayed evergreens now sit atop our tables. Red needlepoint stockings trimmed with gold engraved names are hung from our fireplace mantle. And, a small collection of Christmas dolls dressed in all of their holiday finery appear almost alive on a window sill for all to see. In our dining room, my table is ready and waiting for Christmas dinner. It's already set with my lovely holiday china: a purchase I picked out together with my mother during a visit with her many years before.
Every where you look are reminders of my mother placed purposefully to honor her. Above the fireplace hangs a memorable gingerbread mantle scarf she lovingly cross-stitched for me as a Christmas present long ago. My dining room tablecloth is made exclusively by my mother's hands. I remember her working on it for months in advance in order to have it finished for my Christmas gift several years past. With love and dedication she toiled with her needle and kaleidoscope of multi-colored threads for hours on end until her fingers practically bled. The large white cloth depicts various Victorian Santa Clauses; exceptionally decorated Christmas trees of all sizes, colors and shapes; and borders of emerald green holly sprinkled in burgundy red berries. I use it every year on my holiday table but this year it means so much more than ever before.
I can't begin to put up a Christmas tree this year. I don't have the energy. Nor do I want to painstakingly unwrap each ornament knowing that many will remind me of Mother. I am not ready for those memories to overwhelm me this season. It's all I can do to make it through.
Some traditions can't be ignored however; Christmas dinner being one of them. My sons and new daughter-in-law will be here and expect them. My husband, Gary is happy with whatever is put in front of him. But, my boys are different. My youngest son, Justin will be looking for my 'home-made' noodles; a recipe my mother handed down soon after I was married. My oldest son, Jayson will be savoring our traditional honey-glazed ham with au gratin potatoes on the side. And, my daughter-in-law, Nichole will wait impatiently for her favorite deserts: warm pumpkin pie or cherry cobbler, or both.
In spite of my loss, Christmas will be celebrated this year, just as my mother would have wanted. Some things will be slightly different; like not having a Christmas tree. But I know I will sit with my family around our dining room table, enjoying the beauty of my mother's many Christmas tidings. We'll tell stories of long ago and share treasured memories of my mom (my children's grandmother.) Many of our family's traditions will be celebrated just like every year before: as they should be.
Tradition is what my mother was all about. She'll be proud of me; of all of us.
Thankfully, I managed to make our home look somewhat festive, if only for a couple of weeks. Cream colored candles adorned with golden-sprayed evergreens now sit atop our tables. Red needlepoint stockings trimmed with gold engraved names are hung from our fireplace mantle. And, a small collection of Christmas dolls dressed in all of their holiday finery appear almost alive on a window sill for all to see. In our dining room, my table is ready and waiting for Christmas dinner. It's already set with my lovely holiday china: a purchase I picked out together with my mother during a visit with her many years before.
Every where you look are reminders of my mother placed purposefully to honor her. Above the fireplace hangs a memorable gingerbread mantle scarf she lovingly cross-stitched for me as a Christmas present long ago. My dining room tablecloth is made exclusively by my mother's hands. I remember her working on it for months in advance in order to have it finished for my Christmas gift several years past. With love and dedication she toiled with her needle and kaleidoscope of multi-colored threads for hours on end until her fingers practically bled. The large white cloth depicts various Victorian Santa Clauses; exceptionally decorated Christmas trees of all sizes, colors and shapes; and borders of emerald green holly sprinkled in burgundy red berries. I use it every year on my holiday table but this year it means so much more than ever before.
I can't begin to put up a Christmas tree this year. I don't have the energy. Nor do I want to painstakingly unwrap each ornament knowing that many will remind me of Mother. I am not ready for those memories to overwhelm me this season. It's all I can do to make it through.
Some traditions can't be ignored however; Christmas dinner being one of them. My sons and new daughter-in-law will be here and expect them. My husband, Gary is happy with whatever is put in front of him. But, my boys are different. My youngest son, Justin will be looking for my 'home-made' noodles; a recipe my mother handed down soon after I was married. My oldest son, Jayson will be savoring our traditional honey-glazed ham with au gratin potatoes on the side. And, my daughter-in-law, Nichole will wait impatiently for her favorite deserts: warm pumpkin pie or cherry cobbler, or both.
In spite of my loss, Christmas will be celebrated this year, just as my mother would have wanted. Some things will be slightly different; like not having a Christmas tree. But I know I will sit with my family around our dining room table, enjoying the beauty of my mother's many Christmas tidings. We'll tell stories of long ago and share treasured memories of my mom (my children's grandmother.) Many of our family's traditions will be celebrated just like every year before: as they should be.
Tradition is what my mother was all about. She'll be proud of me; of all of us.
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